What's in a Name?
by rainbowvillain
Summary: I was a murderer before that night. I am a murderer still. But it continues to haunt me..." Dark Knight fanfiction. JokerXOC.
1. Chapter 1

Nameless Love

Chapter 1

I was a murderer before that night. I am a murderer still. But somehow, it still haunts me. They were criminals, none any worse than I am. And now they're all dead criminals. But, because of me, Gotham has been turned on its head. Most honest people have left the city by now, those who could afford it anyway. The police force has all but given up. And though the Batman does his best to keep the worst of us at bay, the Joker keeps him rather busy. And Harvey Dent, the once White Knight of Gotham, is wreaking havoc with his deadly games of chance. Which is why this city, once at least partly decent, is now a living hell.

Funny. How the turn of a key can destroy a whole city. How a few seconds can change the course of fate.

Now, I am certainly no example of an honest, hardworking citizen. I am a serial murderer. Whenever a homeless person, or a hooker, or some crack addict disappears without a trace…it was most likely me. No one investigates the disappearance of someone who wont be missed. And I leave no evidence. In all honesty, I don't do it for any reason other than my own enjoyment. I love watching my victims squirm. Oh, yes, it is a beautiful sight…would you like to know what I do to them?

Well, first, I sneak up behind them, and inject a good amount of morphine into them before they get the chance to scream. And when they wake up, they're naked, and tied to a platform in my basement. The whole basement is covered in plastic, so that the mess doesn't stain anything. Now, you must be informed that I have soundproofed all of the walls in my house. So, I can easily let my victims regain full consciousness…and feeling, before beginning.

Once I feel that they are awake enough, I begin. Most often I like to put lots of little cuts on the most sensitive parts of the body. Then I like to sew the digits together. I really do love the look on their faces from the pain. Oh! And the sound of their screams! It's amazing! A lot of the time, I really enjoy skinning my victims while they yet live. I like to let them watch me…peeling their skin away from their body. It gives me chills, seeing the horror in their eyes.

Sometimes, if I really like a particular victim, I'll name them. Like one would a pet. I make them endure my torture, then I help them to heal, then I'll subject them to a whole new variety of torture. I'll repeat this until my interest wanes. Then, when I get bored with a victim--which always happens eventually--I cut them up into little pieces. I often use the meat in my cooking. Humans are very tender, extremely tasty when cooked right. And I burn whatever is left over.

######

Ah, such poetic justice. Such irony. Here I lay, in a white room, lights blinding me. But I am not dead, nor dying. To think, the one person that I fail to kill is myself. I had been thinking about that boat filled with criminals again. Thinking about what good would have come out of not turning that key. What good could still come from my death.

After all, I am human. I am not remorseless. I suffer from no mental illness, or infirmity. I am entirely sane, and rational, and coherent. So, you may ask, why do I murder? Surely, no sane person can kill so gruesomely. But you are wrong. Sane people kill all the time. Actually, sane murderers are often the best. Because, in our coherent minds we are able to plot and carry out effective plans of action. We are able to perceive things that could, ultimately lead to our demise, and prevent those things. The only problem with being sane, and also a murderer, is the guilt.

I know full well what I am. And I hate myself. I wish to change what I am for the better, but I know not how. Except, simply, to rid the world of one more murderer.

######

The next time I open my eyes, I see a painted face. Chalk white, with bloody, scarred lips, and black holes for eyes. He grins at me with coffee and nicotine stained teeth, and waves at me from across the room, like a bashful child. But his manner is mocking. He strides over to my right side confidently, looking past me and out the window. When he reaches my side, he sits, and smiles.

"Hi." He says, and I almost laugh. This man is, at the moment, the king of Gotham. And he greets me with such timidity. Albeit false. "How are you feeling?" I raise an eyebrow at him in an incredulous look.

"I tried to kill myself last night." I say flatly. "I feel…kind of like a failure." I mean it as a joke. I'm not sure if he catches it or not.

"Oh." He pouts at me playfully. "A failure?" I nod. "But you've killed so many people. In my books you're a real success!" I freeze. How does he know? No one knows. Not the police. Not my friends or family. Not even Batman, with all of his resources and gadgets, would ever be able to catch me. So, how does he know? "Don't worry about how I know." He says, placing a hand on mine. It is rough. He is certainly not pampered. "Just take comfort in the fact that I really look up to you." I give him a skeptical look, and he giggles.

"What reason would you have, to look up to me?" I ask honestly.

"Well…" He licks his painted lips. "You're a serial killer, for one. And! An entirely unknown killer. Nowadays…it's hard to kill anyone…" he licks his lips again. "without getting caught. I mean, I think it's a lot easier to just do it in broad daylight! You don't have to go through the hassle of all that secrecy and…uh" his tongue flicks over his lips once more. "you instill so much more panic…and fear." I see a glint in his eyes. I can see the passion in them. I smile. This man feeds off of fear and chaos, in much the way that I do.

"Why are you here?" I ask, smirking at him intelligently. He leans forward thoughtfully, licking his lips.

"To give you a new reason to live."

######

Out of the hospital. My, now stitched, cuts are fading into scars. Deep and deformed and pink on my pale wrists. They are a lovely sight. I sit in a large armchair, my legs crossed beneath me, staring at them. Once in a while I will lift a finger to play with the black thread holding the cuts closed. Then the man sitting beside me hisses at me to stop.

"Don't want to open them back up, now." He says with a grin. "Not with so much to do." I still have no idea why he took me. No idea why I agreed to come. No idea why I sit here beside him, in an abandoned warehouse, staring at the stitches. No idea why I don't just steal away to the bathroom, and yank the threads out. He wouldn't do anything about it.

"Are we waiting for something?" I ask finally. It's a stupid question. We must be waiting for something, otherwise we wouldn't be sitting here. He doesn't answer me. "What are we waiting for?" I ask after a moment of silence. I'm starting to figure him out, but it's kind of difficult. He is such a strange mind.

"Your job." He says simply. I really want to ask what this "job" is, but I know he wont tell me. He'll probably just string me along with a bunch of riddles until it arrives. I sigh, and begin picking at my stitches again. "Psst! Don't do that." He says in a singsong voice, but he's glaring at me. I roll my eyes and turn away from him.

I adjust my body, so that I am sitting sideways in the chair, and I hang my legs over one arm. I roll my shirt up and look at my belly. It's a little pudgy, but certainly not big enough to be "fat". It is covered in shiny, deformed scars. Some pink, some white. I like to run my fingers over them. I like to feel my deformity. I like knowing that I have put myself through, at least part of the pain that I put my victims through.

I hear the large front door open and shut. Then a group of men walk up to us. I feel like royalty. Sitting on my throne, beside my king, and my subjects are approaching me. The men look frightened. Their eyes stay on him, wide, and filled with obvious fear. They throw something at his feet, and stand at attention. I glance over, and see that it is a man in a batman suit. I shake my head. One would think, since the last imposter was caught by the Joker, they would be smarter than this. But, alas…people are not reliable, and certainly not intelligent.

I lay my head back on the arm of my chair, and look up at the Joker. He smiles down at me.

"What do you want me to do?" I ask flatly. I think I have this figured out, but I want to be sure.

"Just do what you always do." I was right. "I'm just going to videotape you." Wrong.

"No." I say flatly. "Not unless I get a mask, or some face paint. I don't want my face on television." He hands me two jars of face paint. One white, and one black. We exchange grins as I take the paint. "Take him in the back." I say, hopping out of the chair. "Cover everything with plastic. Strip him, and tie him down. I'll be there in a minute."

######

When I walk into the room, I see the Joker first. He is holding a simple video camera. He smiles at me and motions toward a table in the back corner. All of my tools are on it. I smile.

"I like what you've done with your makeup." He says with a manic laugh. I smirk. I look like the Joker, except without the red. My eyes are black holes in my face, and the whole of my face is stark white. Like him, I painted a gruesome smile on my face, but my smile is all black.

I walk over to my victim. The fear in his eyes is like a drug. I feel my heart start to race as I pull my hair back. My breathing becomes heavy, and a smile spreads across my face. I put on the rubber apron provided, and pick up a razor blade from the table. Then I see that the man is gagged. I lean in close to his face, and plant a kiss of death on his forehead as I remove the gag.

Then I look at the Joker. He raises the camera, and nods at me, and I begin.

######

The next day I sit in my throne, my king beside me, my face painted as his. A television glows before us as a live report streams in. A photo of my victim flashes on the screen, and I smirk. His name had been Andrew Samson, he had been twenty-four. His parents describe him as socially inept, and say that he liked to impersonate batman. He was still living with them, and tended to disappear at night, but they had thought that it was harmless. Unfortunately for poor little Andrew, they were horribly wrong.

The Joker giggles like a giddy teenager when our video comes on the air.

"Here we have my lovely new assistant, doing what she does best." The camera observes me as I begin torturing the poor creature on that cold table, and it is horrid. The humane part of me wants to look away, but some monstrous part of me watches the video with glee. That monster inside of me enjoys watching the situation from a new point of view, perhaps too much. When the video ends I want more. I want to see it again. Something about watching myself kill makes my whole body tingle, and I like it.

"So? You like?" I look at the man beside me, and I can't hold back my grin.

"I love it." I say in just above a whisper.

"Haha! I knew you would!" He says, clapping his hands. He kicks the television over, breaking it and making me jump slightly. "Now." He hops out of his seat and stands before me, smiling. "I want to introduce you to a good friend of mine." I look at him strangely, and he grins. "His name is Batman." I nod. I never expected to have to meet Batman, but I didn't have a choice. This man had found a way to renew my love of taking life, and shown me a new source of pleasure.

I will do anything for this man.


	2. Chapter 2

My mother used to say that losing your mind was another way of giving up.

My mother gave up twelve years ago.

Now she sings to herself inside of a padded cell in Arkham Mental Hospital, and I visit her every few months. Every time I see her, she looks more disheveled and mentally disjointed than before. She used to at least notice when I entered the room, now she doesn't even hear when I call her name. She looks into the distance, smiling, lost in some wonderful fantasy. I like to hope that I might be part of that fantasy, along with my younger brother, and my father. But there is no way to know.

"So, she has a sentimental side." I jump at the sound of his voice, and I turn to see his painted face. He smiles at me as he leans in the doorway. "Who knew?" I roll my eyes and look back at my mother, who seems to be staring at him. Her eyes are filled with fear, and she is backing away from him. I know she can't see or hear him, it's impossible, but it still bothers me.

"What do you want?" I ask, sneering at him. I just want him to leave, I hate being watched when I'm with my mother.

"We have to go, Babydoll." He says calmly. I turn to glare at him, and he's smiling knowingly.

"What did you call me?" I ask. I hate pet names, and knowing him it'll take everything I have to make him stop calling me that.

"Babydoll." He says, grinning. "I like it for you. You know, in the light you're cute as a button, but in the dark you're just scary. Creepy really." I smirk at him, and tilt my head to the side.

"Nice name, but don't get used to it." I say, standing and walking toward him. I get as close to him as possible without touching, and I hiss my words. "I'm no porcelain doll, clown. And I hate pet names." The next thing I know my back is against the wall, and I feel the cold blade of a knife pressing at my throat.

"I will call you whatever I want to, Babydoll." He says with a smile. Then he smirks and leans in to whisper in my ear, "And you can either call me Joker or Daddy…" He kisses my neck softly, leaving red paint where his lips touch. "It's your choice."

"Fuck you, clown." I hiss in his ear, and knee him in the crotch. He falls to the ground, and I stand over him with a smile. "I'm not your doll, or your puppet." I look at my mother, smiling serenely again, staring at the ceiling. "I'll be in the car." I say as I step over his squirming figure, and leave him to recover on his own.

#####

The Joker was still angry with me as he drove us to the Gotham Police Headquarters, so he didn't give me any Kevlar before we entered. Instead he hands me a semi-automatic rifle, and offers me a drag on his cigarette. I sneer at him and he shrugs, dropping the half-smoked cigarette on the sidewalk. Then he shoves one of his henchmen through the doors, and begins yelling for everyone to get down. I follow close behind him, carefully avoiding the police's shots by hiding behind two henchmen. I kill three men from the center of the group, then take a bullet to the shoulder.

The shot stings like a bitch. The pain pisses me off, and I shove past the men. I shoot every cop who's still trying to shoot at us. I kill four more cops before they get the message. Finally they are all either dead, or on the floor.

"Alright, douche bags! If you still have any weapons on your person, I suggest you hand 'em over. Believe me, you don't want us to search you!" I yell. I instruct the boys to retrieve the weapons that the cops are holding, and to search anyone who isn't cooperating. One man actually tries to spray mace on one of the guys. I shoot him in the head. "Any more fighters?!" I yell, looking around at the other men in uniform, daring any one of them to make a move. Then I feel a hand on my shoulder.

"Nice job, Babydoll." the Joker wraps his arms around my waist, and rests his head on my shoulder. "You know, I didn't think you'd be quite as useful as…" He trails off, and I feel a sting as he touches the wound on my shoulder. "What happened here?" He hisses, then grabs my gun from me. "You, take care of her! You and you! Come here!" Before I know what's happening, one masked man is tending to my shoulder, as the Joker puts bullets in the two henchmen who had been standing on either side of me.

"What was that about?" I ask as he approaches, and he smiles at me apologetically.

"Sorry, Babydoll, you weren't supposed to get hurt. Those two idiots should have taken better care of you."

"Wait. I wasn't supposed to get hurt?" He nods, and I can't hold back a laugh. "You know, you were kind of begging for me to get hurt when you brought me into this without any Kevlar."

"Well, I thought you needed a little scare since that confrontation earlier." I roll my eyes.

"You're such a child." I say flatly.

"You said it." A deep voice comes from behind the Joker, and the next thing I know he's on the floor. A man dressed all in black is fighting off four henchmen, as the Joker comes at him with a knife. The fight is so disorganized that I can't tell what's happening, until the man in black stands triumphant over the Joker and his men. Then he rounds on me, and approaches me with a dangerous look in his eyes. "You. Who are you?" He demands.

"Me? Haven't you seen the video?" I ask innocently. "I'm the Joker's lovely assistant." I smile jokingly, but he doesn't seem to get the joke.

"You're a murderer." He growls.

"You think I don't know that?" I say with a smirk.

"You're sick."

"Please, tell me something I don't know."

"He doesn't care about you."

"Again, I am already aware." I say, getting bored. "Now, are you going to fight me? Or are you just gonna tell me how horrible I am and leave?"

"I would like nothing more than to take you out." He growls at me, getting a little too close.

"Then do it." I challenge him, as I slip a butterfly knife out of my pocket.

"No."

"What? Why?"

"Because you're not like him."

"You mean, not completely psycho?"

"I mean less humane."

"Aww, thank you. I appreciate the compliment."

"The only reason he hired you, was to have someone else do his dirty work. He could never do what you do."

"I know." I smile knowingly, "He fights me for control, only because he's afraid of me. He knows that the moment I turn on him, he's dead."

"So, what are you going to do?"

"Whatever he asks…as long as he behaves."


End file.
